Читать книгу Fleet of the Damned (Sten #4) - Allan Cole - Страница 20

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IT WAS A COUNTRY inn—large, gleaming white, with exposed stained beams of expensive wood. The gravcars lined up outside were all reasonably new and worth many, many credits. For kilometers around, the farmland was sleek and water-proud. The name of the place was the Imperial Arms Inn.

Bloody figures, Mahoney thought as he reached for the door.

He heard voices shouting from within in heated debate.

“Clottin’ low-life Tahn. Up to me, police’d clear out every one of them.”

“Clot the police. We gotta take care of our own business. A being oughta kill his own snakes. I say we all get together one night and—”

Mahoney was spotted instantly as he walked inside. A church-hall hush fell over the room. Mahoney automatically honked into his handkerchief—cursing mentally to himself that he had ever dreamed up that touch—and strolled over to the bar.

He eased his bulk into a stool. “Shot and a beer, friend,” he told the bartender.

All around him, every person was listening intently to each word he said. The bartender filled up a mug and placed it before him. A second later, a shot glass chinked beside it.

“Traveling through?” the bartender asked, sounding way too casual.

“Sure am,” Mahoney said. “But real slowly, today. Hell of a hangover.”

He took a sip of his beer and chased it with the full shot. The bartender refilled it.

“Party too hard, huh?”

Mahoney groaned. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said. “I happened by the McGregor place, yesterday. You know the spread—maybe thirty klicks out?”

The bartender nodded, as did the rest of the room. Everyone knew the McGregors.

“They just married off their last kid,” Mahoney said. That was far from news to the crowd in the inn. “I showed up just at reception time. Hit it right off with those nice people. They made me stay and filled me right up with all I could eat and drink.” He snorted through his increasingly reddening nose. “’Course, they didn’t have to twist my arm much.”

Mahoney felt the room relax. A moment later it was all a-babble again. The bartender even bought him the next shot. Mahoney sipped at it and peered about the bar, just one friendly face looking for another.

A well-dressed, overstuffed man strolled over to him, carrying his drink. He sat down beside Mahoney.

“You look like you might be in sales,” the man said.

Mahoney laughed. “Hell, does it change a fellow that quick? Farmed two-thirds of my life. Now I’m into sales. Sorta.”

“What do you mean by sorta?”

Mahoney instantly warmed to the man. He began dragging out circulars and brochures.

“Fertilizer plants is my game,” he said. “Look at these boys. Small, cheap, and you get an output for anything from a kitchen garden to a big sucker of a farm.”

The man seemed genuinely interested. “Say, maybe we could use something like that.”

Mahoney peered at him through his old man’s bushy eyebrows. “No offense, but you don’t seem the farmin’ type.”

“No offense taken,” the man said. “I’m into hardware. Got thirty-two stores and growing.”

“Say, you are a find. Let me tell you about these little guys.” Mahoney went into what he called his dancing-bear act. It took many drinks and the good part of an hour. Other men joined the conversation.

And soon Mahoney was handing out bottles of his “calling card.”

By now his mission had taken him to eleven or more Fringe World planets in nearly that many systems.

He had his cover story fine-tuned. Now he was winding up on the Empire’s capital world for the Fringe System: Cavite.

Mahoney was passing himself off as an elderly farmer who had spent most of his life tending a large, rich spread on one of the key Imperial agricultural systems. He was also a habitual tinkerer, constantly inventing little devices to solve problems that irritated him.

Fertilizer was one of his big bugaboos. Mahoney could go on for hours about the rotten quality and expense of the average fertilizer—and he frequently did, to the dismay of casual dinner guests. Anyway, Mahoney the farmer had invented the dandy little fertilizer plant, then put his own money up to found a small company.

Presently, he was acting as his own advance man, touring agricultural areas to brag about his wares. The fact that he wasn’t asking for any money out front but was merely asking people if one of his salesmen could visit in a month or so eased the suspicions of even the overly hostile settlers of the Fringe Worlds.

Mahoney also thought his homemade cider was a nice touch, as was his old man’s chatter, with his knowledge of farming trivia and the ability to bore just about anyone. His only regret was the snort he had adopted to go with the act. Now he couldn’t stop, and he was wondering if he would ever be able to cure himself of the self-made habit. He was also bemoaning the fact that his constant snorting was turning his nose bright red.

“Sounds great to me,” the hardware man said. “Government give you any trouble in the licensing?”

Mahoney snorted a particularly snotty blast. “Licenses? Government? What kind of fool you think I am? Clot, dealt with the damned government all my life. Do everything they can to wreck a farm, if you let them.”

There were angry mutters of agreement from the gathered farmers.

“Besides, I only got maybe thirty years or more in me. Time I got through those licensing butt bungs, I’d be long dead.”

The logic was ancient and irrefutable.

“What about shipping? They givin’ you any trouble about that?”

“Well, I ain’t shippin’ just yet. Right now, I’m gettin’ to know people, show off my plants. Why? You think I’ll have any trouble in these parts?”

The hardware man exploded. “Clottin’ right! I got orders stacked all over the place. Cash orders. And with all this business of the Tahn going on, I’m about ready to go broke.”

He went into a long litany of complaints, which were added to and spiced up by comments from a slowly growing crowd with Mahoney at its center.

They told him about the sneaky, lazy Tahn, about the attacks on their property and their counterattacks. They told him about an economy that was almost paralyzed, and about incompetent cops and worse than incompetent Imperial garrison troops.

They went on about their suspicions: mysterious lights over Tahn enclaves, probable stockpiling of weapons, and professional Tahn troops slipping in to reinforce their filthy brethren.

The Imperial settlers, of course, were blameless. They had tried so hard to bear up under the burden. Everyone in the bar had made a personal sacrifice, hadn’t he? Why, they had even dipped deep into their bank accounts to buy weapons to protect their farms and Imperial property.

Through it all, Mahoney allowed his face to become grimmer and grimmer in agreement. He rarely interrupted, except to snort or to buy another round of drinks.

By the time the night was over, he could have filled an entire fiche with his report.

He was also beginning to realize that the situation with the Mercury Corps was even worse than he had told the Emperor. The intelligence he was getting was at complete odds with what the Emperor had been hearing. In the Fringe Worlds, the corps had been pierced, corrupted, and broken. It was enough to put a good Irishman off drink.